


Have to Keep

by Stonestrewn



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: M/M, mentions of Iron Bull/Dorian, mentions of Krem/Maryden
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-13
Updated: 2015-09-13
Packaged: 2018-04-20 14:33:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4790843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stonestrewn/pseuds/Stonestrewn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You could lead your own crew,” the Bull says. “You know that, right? You’ve the fighting skills, the charisma, the tactical sense… You care, but don’t let it cloud your judgment. All it would take to make a name for yourself and the only thing stopping you is me.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Have to Keep

**Author's Note:**

  * For [alliterate](https://archiveofourown.org/users/alliterate/gifts).



> For Kit aka alliterate, as a token of my appreciation for their continued and enthusiastic beta reading services. English is bullshit but they are a pearl.
> 
> Mind the Trespasser spoilers!

The Chief sits down heavily on the bench, heavily enough that Krem almost expects to hear the sound of cracking wood to follow. It wouldn’t be the first time he’s broken furniture in unsexy contexts - human society isn’t adapted to his mass, neither the fat nor the muscle, especially not the part of society cozying up in Orlesian palaces. Which, their fault, then. The Bull always gets this sort of dejected ‘ah, well’ look and compensates for the damages with disproportionate sums, while Krem gets quietly defensive on his behalf. Spend five minutes in his company, just five observant minutes, and you’ll see how much of his energy is spent on holding back. You build a chair for ants, tell him to sit in it and get pissed when it breaks. Because that makes sense. 

Krem always jokes about it, in the tone of meanness that lessens the sting, while he waits for the seething inside him to settle. 

Doesn’t have to this time, though. The bench holds him well enough. The Bull lets out a deep sigh, rests his head against the wall behind and stretches out his legs with pain-laced movements, resting his braced ankle on top of the other. 

“You good, Chief?” Krem asks and means ‘should I get Stitches?’

“I’m good,” the Bull says, and means it. 

There’s not many people out at this hour, even the majority of the Chargers have thrown in the towel in favor of their bedrolls. The council meeting has concluded and the Winter Palace is already taking on an air of mission complete, burrowing in under the covers of a cloudy Halamshiral sky to get some well needed rest. 

But the Iron Bull is up, and if he is then so is his lieutenant. 

“I wanted to talk to you,” the Bull says. “Before I bring it up with the rest of the guys, you and I should have our own chat about the future.”

Krem shrugs. “There’s always gonna be work for people who can handle it. We did fine on our own before. We’ll do fine again.”

“Yeah, but,” and the Bull pushes up his lower lip in what is unmistakably a pout. He says it isn’t if you call him on it, but it is. “you’re the one who’s been bringing up disbanding.”

“It’s not on with you, though. So it’s not on.”

“We’re not talking about me, we’re talking about you.”

“The Inquisition disbanded eight hours ago. Whole thing’s moot.” 

“Never mind the Inquisition. This is a Krem conversation.”

“Ah, Chief-”

“Tell me what it is you need.”

“Nuh-uh.” Krem crosses his arms. “I’m not having a need talk. Don’t you get enough of those with Dorian?”

“I know Dorian has what he needs,” the Bull says. “The question is: do you?”

“I’m fine, mom. You can drop it.”

The Bull grunts. It’s not a happy sound, but the subject seems to have been dropped. He straightens where he sits, puts both feet on the ground. 

“A little help?” he says, reaching up towards Krem with his left hand. The leg must be acting up more than he’s letting on if he wants the support. 

Krem has a quip about aging and certain shrivelling body parts at the tip of his tongue, but doesn’t have time to say it before the Chief’s hand in his becomes a firm grip around his wrist and an even firmer pull. In less than a second he’s down on the bench, too, his torso clamped between the Bull’s massive arm and his equally massive chest. 

His struggling is cursory. The Bull isn’t undefeatable in a wrestling match: his ears are ticklish and if you manage to get two fingers up his nose you’ve a good chance of him throwing the match, he absolutely hates that. But once he’s got a good grip? You’re not getting out unless you watch-word it or give some other signal of discomfort. 

Krem has no need for watch-wording at the moment, and the struggling is because pride forbids he just settles against the large, warm, generously padded backrest that is his commander without protest.

But he does, eventually. His back against the Bull’s side, his feet propped up on the bench and one arm resting on the Bull’s thigh. He moves his head two inches to the right, and his cheek brushes against a bulging bicep. 

“Gotcha,” the Bull says. 

“Got me,” Krem admits, and shifts so his armor doesn’t dig into his hips.

They sit together in silence for a little while. The Chief hasn’t washed since he got back from jumping through mirrors to fight his former people, and the smell of his sweat prickles in Krem’s nostrils. It’s not bad. He’s used to it now, used to it enough that the stench signals things like safety, home, sappy stuff like that. 

There’s a tinge of blood to it as well, and for a moment Krem wonders how okay the Bull really is with recent events. He just has to look at himself. Despite everything that’s happened, going up against a Tevinter army foot soldier uniform still means he has to grip his maul a little tighter, palms sweaty inside his gloves. You can cut things off, but the wounds you have to keep. 

“I’m serious,” the Bull says at last. “I’ve got to know your feelings on this.” He cups his hand under Krem’s cheek, tilts his head back to look him in the eyes. The Bull’s upside down face is neutral to perfection.

“If the Chargers go back the way they were,” he continues, ”it means I go back, too. Full time. You’ve been holding the fort for a while, and done a damn good job of it. But that won’t continue. There’ll be a few changes, I’m sure we’ve both gotten some ideas out of this, but you’ll be all lieutenant again. Not acting commander.”

There really is no trace of what he’s thinking visible in his expression. The Chargers mock him for bringing up ben-hassrath training at every opportunity, but times like these you understand it really does mean something. Krem swallows, aware the Bull can feel the movement under his palm. There’s something unsettling and wrong about that one eye not letting any emotion shine through.

“You could lead your own crew,” the Bull says. “You know that, right? You’ve the fighting skills, the charisma, the tactical sense… You care, but don’t let it cloud your judgment. All it would take to make a name for yourself and the only thing stopping you is me.”

He lets go of Krem’s chin as he says it, the vice of his arm slackens. The road lies open if Krem wants to leave, if he wants to step out of the Bull’s shadow and thrust his own, chosen name at the world, following no one but himself. 

Krem scoffs.

“Yeah, right. And then I’d have all your lives on my conscience. Face it, you’d fall apart without me.”

The Bull says nothing. 

“It just, made sense at the time, all right?” Krem says, sitting up straight on the bench, elbows on his knees. “We disbanded, we’d be able to be of more use to the Inquisition. It’d be more practical, that’s all. Doesn’t mean I’ve some wild plan of- of whatever you’ve been cooking up for me in that thick head of yours.”

“Practical, huh?” The Bull’s face is still a blank.

“It would be. I mean, it would. And-” Krem rubs his neck. “You’d still be around. It’d just be the name that was gone, we’d still be _us_.” He sighs. “Now though, there’s no question of it. I’m not going where you’re not.”

The smile creeps onto the Chief’s features one sneaky step at a time, until his eye gleams as much as the metal patch in his hideously handsome face.  
“So stop reading things into things,” Krem concludes as the Bull slings an arm around his shoulders. Not a grip this time, just touch. 

“Shame,” the Bull says. “I know what you could’ve called your group...”

“Don’t-”

“The Krem Puffs.”

Krem groans. The Bull laughs so hard the entire bench shakes, slapping his good knee. When it looks like the laughing is going to go on for a while unless he takes action Krem gets up on his knees, hooks his elbow around a horn and pulls him in to smother the roaring sound with his mouth. 

The Bull lets him. The laughter abates as his lips meld to Krem’s, as his hands come to rest on the other man’s hips. Krem has let go of his horn to cradle his head instead, feel the pleased flickering of the chief’s pointy little ears, the familiar texture of his scars, the thick, scratchy stubble. He kisses him, then kisses him again, enjoying this as one of those rare occasions when the Chief’s tongue defers to his. 

They break apart and Krem flops nonchalantly back down on the bench.

“Anyway,” he says. “If the Inquisition’s just a chapter in the Charger story, that’s fine by me.”

“Been a good one though, right?” The Bull says. “Gave us some amazing fights. Like those massive ogres in the Deep Roads.” He growls, a low, throaty sound. Lusty. 

Krem looks up, horrified. 

“...You’re not serious.”

“I’m just saying they’re-”

“No.”

“Aw, come on! Racks like you’ve never seen!”

“You get it up for the weirdest shit.”

The Bull flicks Krem’s ear. “Like Vints?”

“Like magisters,” Krem says, but there’s no real disapproval in his voice. Pavus makes the Chief happy. There’s always going to be a barrier spelling ‘s-o-p-o-r-a-t-i’ between him and Krem, but as far as magisters are concerned you can find worse. A lot worse. 

And no one has ever had to fight for the Chief’s attention. The Bull has a heart even bigger than his dick, and that’s saying something. 

“I’ve been thinking,” he says now. “Maryden’s got to be on the lookout for new haunts, with everyone scattering.” 

“I guess?”

“Well, let’s recruit her!”

“...Really?”

“Never let it be said the Iron Bull broke up a budding…” and here the Bull winks so energetically so many times his remaining eye should’ve popped out if there was any justice in the world, “... _courtship_.”

It’s a more than appealing thought, Maryden with the Chargers, but Still Krem says: “You sure? She wouldn’t be much use.” Beyond filling out her jacket like whoa and getting his stomach flipping with the twang of a string, but that’s beside the point. 

“She’s a bard, she’ll earn her keep.”

“No, Chief, I told you. She’s not that kind of bard.”

“Yet.” 

That’s a prospect Krem’s not so sure about. “Can’t she just… sing our song, or something?” he says, and adds with sudden inspiration: “We don’t have a morale officer.”

“Bet she’d get your morale pumping, all right,” the Iron Bull says, and Krem tries to force the blush from his ears by sheer will. “Ah, don’t worry. It’ll work itself out once she’s on board.” 

Krem realizes he’s smiling. He’s going to be back on the road soon, with the Chargers. With Maryden, with the Chief, with gold to earn and bars to brawl in, with friends at his side and lovers in his bed. It will be all he’ll ever need.

The Chief, on his end, is frowning. “Still not sure there isn’t more to her,” he says, and Krem shakes his head.

“You know, sometimes? People are just what they are. Not everyone in the world’s plotting to kill someone at all times, I swear. You’ve got hundreds of thousands of people out there who’re just one thing at a time. I promise.”

He’s still smiling as he says it, there’s laughter in his voice, but when he looks at the Chief, the Bull is serious. Thought is furrowing his brow, weighing down the corners of his mouth. 

“Years ago now,” he says, “when the alliance with the Qunari was on the table. When we fought the Venatori on the Storm Coast. That time, I-”

He stops. The Chief looks uncertain the way he never does, his lips parted around things unsaid. Krem waits, but nothing happens.

“That time you what?” he finally says, after he’s lost count of how many awkward seconds have slipped by. 

“Nah. It doesn’t matter.“

Krem doesn’t ask. If the Chief says it’s nothing, then Krem trusts that it’s true. He has just relaxed into the now comfortable silence when, all of a sudden, the Bull wraps his arms around him, scoops him up and off the bench in a rush of motion and hugs him so hard Krem worries it’s going to dent his chest plate. 

“Because I am the Iron Bull!” the Chief booms. “I _am_ the Iron Bull!” 

And with that he kisses Krem, a kiss more teeth than tongue, a kiss that’s triumphant and shameless, with his fingers threading through Krem’s hair, scratching at his scalp, a kiss that slams into him and leaves him breathless. 

“And now,” the Bull says, breaking the kiss with a loud smack, “I’m gonna get my lieutenant so drunk he’ll be pissing ale for weeks!”

He hoists Krem up on a shoulder, while Krem is kicking, laughing, gasping for air.

They go four flailing steps before he trips and they fall into a fountain.


End file.
